


A boy, a man

by backfourteen



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Atleti, Atlético Madrid, Español | Spanish, Gen, I think Simeone is in great shape, La Liga, M/M, Villarreal cf, a tame M/M, young developing captain Nando
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-06
Updated: 2017-03-06
Packaged: 2018-09-29 19:44:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10142597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/backfourteen/pseuds/backfourteen
Summary: “Cholo is fat.”Salva says as he turns toward Fernando, a hint of realization in the intonation. As if today was the first time he’d seen Diego in months. Like he doesn’t see Diego everyday. Salva’s expression doesn’t change as he looks over at Diego again, who is crouched, fiddling with his boots. Fernando frowns as Salva pokes his arm and motions very conspicuously toward Diego.“He’s fat.” This time Salva’s tone is more insistent and sure. Fernando shifts his weight to the other hip, swatting at Salva’s pointing arm.“He’s not fat. You, on the other hand.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first time I've written anything involving teams/players/managers/etc. outside the Premier League (wow). Also, as a massive red, how is this my first time writing Torres?
> 
> But when I was at a friend's watching CL last week, he said, "Cholo's getting a little curvy, isn't he?" And a fic seed was planted. 
> 
> * Any clarification notes needed for characters and/or Spanish will come at the end. As with all of my other fics that involve timelines or languages I'm not extremely familiar with, I've done some solid research.

2005

“Cholo is fat.”

Salva says as he turns toward Fernando, a hint of realization in the intonation. As if today was the first time he’d seen Diego in months. Like he doesn’t see Diego everyday. Salva’s expression doesn’t change as he looks over at Diego again, who is crouched, fiddling with his boots. Fernando frowns as Salva pokes his arm and motions very conspicuously toward Diego. 

“He’s fat.” This time Salva’s tone is more insistent and sure. Fernando shifts his weight to the other hip, swatting at Salva’s pointing arm. 

“He’s not fat. You, on the other hand.”

The comeback is feebly delivered. Fernando doesn’t mean it. Salva shrugs, putting his hands on his hips and squeezing a little, analyzing his own shape. 

“Eh. I’m only saying.”

But Fernando is bothered. So much so that his skin prickles. He scratches incessantly at the soft inside of his elbow and follows Salva as he walks away, out of the midday sun and into a small spot of shade where the rest of the team is lounging between drills. Fernando grabs Salva’s arm just as he goes to sit. 

“But he’s not,” Fernando gently insists. Salva yanks away. 

“ _Joder_ , Torres. If I knew joking about _El Cholo_ would bother you, I wouldn’t have said anything.”

“What’s the joke?”

Diego asks as he butts in with a grin, untucking his shirt and lifting the collar to wipe his mouth. Fernando sees enough of him then. Not fat. 

“That you’re fat.”

Salva says, so casual and unblinking that it cuts. At least it cuts Fernando. Diego seems as equally unperturbed as Salva, flicking Salva in the ear. 

“ _Idiota_. Thought it would be a funny joke.”

Diego shoves him and they share a laugh as Salva plops down onto the grass. Fernando stays put and Diego puts a hand on his shoulder, turning them away from the rest of the group. 

“It’s okay, you know. He could have said something worse. Salva’s like that. A _careta_.”

Diego’s voice is very assuring, verging on comforting, and it makes Fernando feel stupid. Fernando nods curtly to assure Diego everything’s alright and Diego turns to go. 

“You’re not, though.”

Diego falters for a moment, turning back to Fernando. There’s soft confusion on Diego’s face.

“Fat. You’re not fat. At least – I don’t think so.”

Diego is still looking at Fernando, mouth quirked into a small, bemused smile when Ferrando comes up behind Fernando and claps him on the shoulders. “No one in this squad is fat, Torres. Everyone get back on the pitch. Torres, lead the sprints.” 

The stupid feeling doesn’t go away for the rest of training, but he catches Diego looking at him a few times. He doesn’t feel so bad about “being a sensitive fucking _marícon_ ”, as he hears Salva say in the lockers later. 

 

\---

 

“You’re not mad, are you?”

Salva asks Fernando the next morning as they stretch. Fernando has to brush the sweat-matted blonde hair out of his eyes to see Salva.

“Not anymore.”

“Were you actually mad? Why be mad about a joke that’s not about you?”

“That’s a silly thing to say.”

Salva breathes out. “Okay. Why be mad about a joke that didn’t upset the person it was about?”

“Equally silly.”

Salva shakes his head with an almost reverential grin. “I fucking hate you, Torres.” 

Diego takes Fernando by the arm later on in training during a quick moment of repose and pulls him a meter or so away from the others. Not far enough to attract attention but far enough that it makes Fernando nervous.

“Why do you listen to Salva?”

“I don’t usually. Sorry, again. About yesterday.”

Diego laughs and looks up at Fernando, the same confused look on his face as the day before. Fernando feels like he’s missed something. 

“You also don’t have to apologize for him.”

“I know. It just bothered me more than usual. The shit he says.”

“You care more about him calling me fat than you care about him calling you a _marícon_?”

Fernando nods with a sharp exhale, running a hand through his hair and wiping the sweat on his shorts.

“Yeah. It doesn’t upset me. It’s kind of my job to ignore him.”

They stand in silence until it feels awkward. Fernando’s eyes dart to the grass. Diego cranes his neck and Fernando figures he’s looking to see if there is anyone else around he would rather talk to than Fernando. 

“Well. I should thank you anyway. I owe you.”

Diego says as he goes, squeezing Fernando’s hip on his way to Ibáñez. Fernando doesn’t say anything in return. He looks up a few moments later and Diego is looking directly at him from Ibáñez’s side, through the crowd of their teammates. 

 

\---

 

“You don’t act like a captain.”

Diego says as he edges Salva out of the way, taking over as Fernando’s stretching partner. Salva curses but doesn’t argue as he moves on to stretch with the goal post. No one argues with Diego. Fernando glances up at Diego from his deep hamstring stretch. It’s early enough in the morning that the sun is still casting a hazy gild and Fernando looks straight into it, Diego standing in front of it like an eclipse. 

“Thanks,” Fernando replies briskly, blinking the glare out of his eyes. 

“I mean – ” Diego backtracks. He can tell he’s made a mistake. “It’s not a bad thing. You are a quiet leader.”

“Quiet,” Fernando repeats, easing out of his stretch. When he meets Diego’s eyes he laughs a little, bitterly. “Quiet.”

“Don’t be dramatic. It’s not an insult.”

Fernando waits a moment, doesn’t join Diego in the next stretch. He clenches his fists, tries to hide his frustration. 

“I stretch with Salva because he is the one who disrespects me. I treat him with respect because he doesn’t treat me with respect. I let him call me _marícon_ because his attitude is important to the team.”

“You don’t have to justify – ” Diego starts, but Fernando firmly stops him. 

“No, I know why you keep coming to me. You want to reassure me or something. I don’t need it. I’m a good captain. I have my relationship with everyone on the team. Salva making fun of me doesn’t make me a bad captain.”

Diego sits on the grass and hisses when the dew quickly seeps through his shorts. Diego looks up at Fernando expectantly until he sits beside Diego. They reach for their feet. 

“You’re paranoid. And too young.” Diego says. “A good captain doesn’t need to reassure others they are a good captain.”

Diego grins and Fernando shakes his head with a smile, refuses to meet Diego’s eyes. 

“Is that what you really think?” Fernando asks, half teasing, half curious. 

“That you need reassurance? Yes. Paranoid and too young, yes. That you’re a bad captain? No. Not at all.”

They both stand, Fernando helping Diego up, and brush the sticky green grass from their socks. Fernando tucks his hair behind his ears.

“Well. I don’t need reassurance from an old, fat midfielder.”

And Fernando quickly zips out of Diego’s reach as Diego laughs aloud and swats at him, disrupting the relative silence of the sleepy morning stretch. 

_Ay, mocoso, por qué no te callas?_ Ferrando barks, and Diego covers his mouth with his hand, laughing still behind it. 

 

\---

 

Villarreal away. Atlético are up thanks to a brace from Fernando and Villarreal have one thorugh Forlán until Perea knocks it into his own net for a 2-2 equalizer, 82nd minute. Fernando’s throat aches, his voice scraping and raw as he screams desperate words of encouragement, orders his players to look at each other, assures them that they still have time to clinch the winner. He notices how the connection dissolves between his men. How no one is listening. The yellow of the Cerámica, made golden by the setting sun, swells rightfully in confidence. 

At the same time, Fernando is desperately trying to shake Sorín. _He’s fucking with me_ , Fernando says angrily to Diego as they pass each other, Sorín biting at Fernando’s heels. When Sorín clinically clips Fernando in a challenge, Fernando falls heavily to the pitch. A roar rises from not too far away – too close, too clear to be from the crowd. Fernando cranes his throbbing head to see, scrambling to his feet so quickly his head spins. 

Diego appears out of nowhere, all fire, and bumps chests with Sorín like a battering ram, putting his hand flat on Sorín’s chest when he bounces back to retaliate. Sorín comes for Diego, chomping at the bit, snarling _Andá a cagar, Diego, tomátela!_ Their skin flashes with sweat under the fluorescent lights as Fernando leaps to hold Diego back, hands firmly wrapped around his arms from behind. Diego is tremendously tense, moments from snapping, but Fernando hangs on, moving to his shoulders for more leverage as Diego tries to yank away. 

_You think you can fuck with Torres? You think you can lay a hand of one of us? Fucking try me, Sorín._

Sorín grins. _You’re so concerned about that fucking gallego Torres. Any big, fucking idiot can score goals. Big gallego boys fall hard, right, Torres?_

By now, both teams and the throng of referees and officials have inserted themselves into the situation. Fernando finds that even after the situation diffuses a bit and both Diego and Sorín receive yellows, his hands still grip Diego’s shoulders like vices. His fingers throb when Diego finally brushes him off. 

“Fight for yourself, yeah, Torres?”

Forlán says pejoratively, nudging Fernando as the crowd disperses. Suddenly angry and intensely embarrassed, Fernando finds Diego. Diego is breathing heavily, face blotched with red. Diego holds a hand out with a small smirk, expecting Fernando to meet it with his own. 

“Don’t fight for me,” Fernando says brusquely, passing by Diego without a glance back. But Diego grabs him hard, tugs him back, spins him around.

“I owed you. And don’t fucking talk to me like that.” 

Fernando pulls his arm away and Diego lets go, but Fernando doesn’t go anywhere, eyes still narrowed and focused right on Diego’s. There isn’t much time left in the match. Ferrando yells for their attention, asks what the fuck they're doing, but the throbbing in Fernando’s ears, the tightness in his lungs hasn’t gone away yet. If anything, it’s gotten worse since Diego grabbed him. 

“You’re not going to do it yourself, anyway, Fernando.”

“I’m trying. To fight. But you have to let me.”

“I owed you.”

“You don’t owe me anything. I’m your captain.”

Fernando jogs the few paces back to his place and looks back once at Diego. Diego cups his hands around his mouth and yells _Keep trying, captain_ with a grin. 

Fernando breathes out. _Keep trying._

They lose to Villarreal after Sorín scores in the 90th minute. Diego’s hand holds the back of Fernando’s neck firmly when he finds him, hugs him promptly after the final whistle. 

 

\---

 

The next morning, Salva is in rare form. The sun beats down, gentle in heat but cruel in brilliance, practically giving Salva a spotlight under which to perform. His play-by-play of the loss is vulgar and misinformed at best, and a mentally exhausted Fernando keeps a peripheral listening ear on the monologue as they wait in line for the drill. 

“And Nando has to have Cholo fighting for him because he can’t handle being called _gallego_. Fucking waste of a captain.”

Fernando springs forward from the back of the line and grabs Salva by the loose training top, yanking him out of line and shoving him to the grass with a force he’s never used with anyone before. For a moment, the rest of the team continues on with the drill, not noticing. A very-engrossed-in-his-notes Ferrando also doesn’t notice. Fernando stands over Salva, and for once, Salva is rendered silent.

“Listen to me, _hijo de puta_ ,” Fernando yells, and the drill comes to a halt. “I’m the captain. I’m your captain. You constantly forget. Don’t ever forget again.”

As Ferrando charges over and the team gathers around, Fernando extends a hand to Salva, who refuses it and hoists himself up, brushing himself off and squirming past the crowd to exit the circle. 

Ferrando pushes through his crowded team, mouth ajar. “Torres!” 

Fernando feels a little nudge at his side and Diego is beside him. Fernando blinks and Diego is moving toward Ferrando to explain, to defend Fernando. Ferrando swats Diego away.

" _¿Qué mosca te ha picado, niño?_ "

Many of the young men raise their hands, volunteering _Salva’s being an asshole_ and other various explanations. Fernando can only bite back a smile, a proud blush shining across his cheeks. 

Ferrando nods at Torres. “Back to the drill.” 

 

\---

 

It’s the first time in a while that the post-training locker room is free from Salva’s teasing. Fernando purposely takes a while in the lockers to savor the pleasant conversation, the relative silence of his teammates when not agitated by Salva. Fernando also secretly enjoys the slight distance his teammates keep from him. They smile at him and give him words of encouragement but also edge around him as if they would be next to be pushed down. He smiles to himself as he slips out of his sticky practice clothes, showers off, combs his hair in the foggy mirror. 

Fernando thinks he’s alone until he hears Diego’s voice echo from the other side of the showers. “Wouldn’t have expected that from you.” 

Fernando grins at his reflection in the mirror as Diego’s bare feet slap on the tile floor, growing louder and closer. Fernando turns to greet him but feels his tailbone hit the edge of the cold sink, Diego standing a bit closer than Fernando would have expected him to stand. 

“Did you just touch me? Didn’t you hear I’m the captain? I’ll shove you to the ground.”

Fernando’s clear, high laugh fades when he notices that Diego is not laughing, but actually staring up at Fernando quite seriously, and when he notices that Diego’s hands are braced on the sink behind Fernando’s back, his thumbs snug against Fernando’s track-pants-covered hips. Diego is wearing the same track pants and nothing else. Not fat at all. 

“See? I’m not fat. But you already knew that. Because you stare at me all the time.”

Fernando opens his mouth to object but Diego laughs, moving his hands slowly from the sink to Fernando’s hips. “You did well today.”

Fernando freezes solid. “Thank you. You helped.” 

Diego frowns a bit and takes his hands away, moving his body away from Fernando’s. “You tensed up. If you don't want - ”

Fernando grabs Diego’s hands and puts them back on his hips. “No, sorry, that’s good. Stay like that.”

Diego smiles, moving one of his hands to Fernando’s flat stomach, tracing along the waistband of his pants. Fernando quickly reddens and tucks his hair behind his ears, takes in a deep breath through his nose as to not come immediately in his pants. 

“You're apologizing again.”

Diego smirks. Fernando leans into Diego’s touch, hums as his hands move slowly up Fernando’s chest, shoulders, to his neck, face. To his wet, floppy, bottle blonde hair. 

“And what about you?” Fernando says. “Coming to fight for me again today.” 

Diego shrugs, pulling Fernando’s head down so it’s even to his, so their noses touch. 

“Can’t help it.”

 

\---

 

2017

“Fernando is a lot, I don’t know – feistier? Feistier than I thought he’d be,” Antoine says, passing the ball with a solid _thwack_ to Koke across the way. 

“I think you mean to say he’s a brat.”

“Right, Koke. You love him.”

“Like you don’t.”

The team is cooling down after a series of intense drills – they are over-preparing for their upcoming Champions League match against Bayer Leverkusen. But, of course, as Simeone insisted at the beginning of the day’s training, it’s not over-preparing for the Champions League unless someone dies. Every match is being treated with the same gravity as a final. 

As they reconvene for water, Koke puts his arm around Antoine’s neck and slumps into him, Antoine groaning under his weight as he nearly buckles. “ _Putain_ , you’re an idiot. And so heavy.”

“I’m not. But you know who is? Who’s getting a little curvy?”

Antoine throws Koke his water bottle. “Your mom?”

“No. Well, yes. But no. I mean – ” Koke lowers his voice even though there’s no one else close enough to hear their conversation. “Cholo.”

Antoine frowns, looks quickly over at Simeone through the pack of their teammates, looks back at Koke. 

“Not really.”

“You don’t think so? I asked Fernando and he said the same thing - _not really_. And then he shoved me.”

“No. Maybe you spend too much time staring at Cholo. Maybe you’re just being mean.” 

Koke pouts. “Stop that. Just an observation.”

Antoine wraps his arm around Koke’s neck, catching Simeone’s eye as he pulls Koke roughly into his chest. Antoine smiles and Simeone smiles back, looking directly at Antoine through the crowd of his team.

**Author's Note:**

> The essential details of that Villarreal/Atleti match are real. The scuffle between Simeone and Sorín is not.
> 
>  
> 
> A lil character clarification:
> 
>  - "Salva" is Salva Ballesta, the former Spanish international who played for Atlético for 2004-2005 on loan from Valencia. He was very outspoken about his nationalistic and militaristic beliefs - for example, he is a staunch opponent of Basque independence and repeatedly disrespected rival fans of teams from Basque Country and Catalonia. 
> 
> \- "Ferrando" is César Ferrando, the manager of Atlético for a single season: 2004-2005. 
> 
> \- "Ibáñez" is Pablo Ibáñez Tébar, a former Spanish international who played for Atlético from 2004-2010. From the research I did, he seems like a great human being as well as a critically underrated footballer. 
> 
> \- "Forlán" is Diego Forlán, the Uruguayan international who played for Villarreal from 2004-2007 (before moving to Atlético in 2007) and who currently plays at Mumbai City. An amazing footballer with a massive legacy.
> 
> \- "Perea" is Luis Amaranto Perea, the former Colombian international who played for Atlético from 2004-2012. 
> 
> \- "Sorín" is Juan Pablo Sorín, the former Argentinian international who played for Villarreal from 2004-2006. He captained Argentina at the 2006 World Cup, at which Argentina exited the tournament in the QF against Germany. 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Spanish clarification:
> 
> \- _careta_ : Argentinian/Buenos Aires Spanish. "Mask," or something you'd call a bullshitter or a fake person.  
> \- _marícon_ : Derogative term for a gay man. Not to be used or taken lightly.  
> \- _mocoso, por qué no te callas?_ : Brat/punk/annoying kid/etc., why don't you shut up?  
> \- _Andá a cagar, Diego, tomátela!_ : Argentinian/Buenos Aires Spanish. Screw off/fuck off, Diego, fuck you.  
> \- _gallego_ : Argentinian Spanish. A derogative term for people from Spain used by Central and South Americans.  
> \- _¿Qué mosca te ha picado?_ : What's gotten into you?  
> \- _Putain_ : This is French! A very flexible word for all situations. The interjection form of "fuck."


End file.
